It’s late August, and the feeling of summer running low is very real. There’s less time to sit and read for pleasure, or carelessly binge-watch television, or surrender to random afternoon naps. The sun is noticeably lower in the sky when my dog Freddie and I take our evening walk. Most (not all, of course) of the jobs on my summer to-do list have been completed. It isn’t much longer until the world around here will all be about back to school.
I’m officially back on Monday, the 27th, with a week to prepare before my students arrive. I learned only days ago I've been assigned to teach a different grade, for complicated reasons I won’t explain in detail, sparing you from enduring the professional vocabulary necessary to describe how this particular variety of educational sausage is made. Instead of making mental lists to determine whether the pros about this change outweigh the cons, I’m choosing to accept it both as the compliment that it is, and the presentation of a surmountable and engaging challenge that will define much of my school year. And ultimately, the situation I’ll be in will only be for this year anyway; regardless of what happens during the next ten months, there are guarantees that even more dramatic changes will happen in the school year to follow.
In a lot of ways, the beginning of the school year for teachers has a feel of surrendering much about the life we’d ideally make for ourselves in favor of the greater good. Having been in education as long as I have now, I’m absolutely sure I’m not alone in feeling this way. It’s a job that has everything to do with the lives and welfare of children and families and community, with teachers being in a critical position to make positive or negative differences, often without even realizing we’re doing it. It’s both an opportunity and a burden. I won’t go as far to say that it’s the most important job in our society, but if there are any other jobs more important, there aren’t many, and education is as much of a cornerstone as anything else.
Knowing this — not just believing it but knowing the truth of it — puts me in a mindset to start a new school year prepared to, for lack of a better word, attack it. Which I have to; teaching is not something that can be approached with any passivity if it’s going to be done successfully. For better or for worse, I have to own that being a teacher is not just a job but a dominant part of the life I’ve decided to have.
At the same time though, being a dominant part of life (at least for the next ten months) does not, and should not, mean the job takes over everything. It becomes even more important to defend a sense of self separated from school, if only to reach for maintaining a healthy balance. Not all thought and emotion can be turned over to the job, which is sometimes much easier said than done.
Today I’m enjoying the peace of my last afternoon of the summer, knowing my feet will need to hit the ground running tomorrow morning and I’ll probably feel hopelessly behind on all I need to do before I get home tomorrow evening. I’ve had this gig for awhile though, and I know it doesn’t pay to manufacture added stress about so many of the things that will happen throughout the year, since those issues will eventually be resolved, one way or another.
All I can do is respect how much influence my efforts and decisions can have on the students and colleagues around me, to remember that each day begins with a chance to start anew, and to acknowledge there will be limits to what I can accomplish. Trying my reasonable best and keeping a healthy balance in my life seem like good first steps in that direction.
It’s now been a month since Freddie moved in. His online adoption profile said “he’ll be shy at first, but with enough time he’ll become your best friend!” This was why I waited until summer break to adopt, knowing that concentrated amount of bonding time would help a new dog become comfortable with me and his new surroundings before I had to start back to school.
The first time we met, he growled at me when I reached to pet him, and he would only grudgingly accept any treats I offered. Otherwise he sat cautious and unmoving in the grass, leaning hard into his foster mom’s hip to put every millimeter of distance between him and me that he could. Now, if I sit down to watch TV or read, he’ll jump up beside me and either snuggle in or start tapping me with his paw if I don’t begin to pet him quickly enough.
The first times I took him outside meant gently slipping the harness over his head while he sat on the love seat. Our first walks were explorations of our small yard; one lap around the house would take at least ten minutes. He’d cautiously watch me and I’d carefully make sure I wasn’t stepping too fast, since he’d jump in surprise if my foot ever did anything he didn’t expect. When he felt safe he’d sniff the grass to gradually learn about his new home. Now he’ll race to the front door when it’s time for our morning walk. He’ll sit on a floor mat and wag his tail while I put him in his harness and then we’re off, heading down to the stretch of sidewalk where all the neighborhood dogs seem to stop and visit. He’ll happily trot for the half-mile or so of the walk, only occasionally stopping to when he picks up a scent, which he’ll sniff and follow with the tenaciousness of a cartoon dog detective. At first he leads me with all six feet of his leash but will settle in to walking at my side, matching my pace closely enough for the leash to hang loose and drag on the sidewalk between us.
When he first moved in, he spent nearly every waking moment curled up on the one section of the love seat close enough to his crate for him to decide was a safe place. Now when we return from our walks, he’ll wait patiently for me to take off the harness then he’ll zoom into the living room and hop up on that same love seat, standing on his hind legs and wagging his tail so he can have his good morning scratches. Then he’ll race into the kitchen for his breakfast. He’ll scarf it down so quickly I barely have time to put the food bag away, turn on the news, and sit down before he bounces back into the living room and demands more petting.
He brought two favorite toys from foster care — a half-chewed rawhide bone and a heart-shaped squeak toy pillow. He ignored them both for at least two weeks, even when I put the pillow in his crate at night, thinking it probably had familiar smells. Eventually he started playing with the rawhide, enough that big pieces started falling off and I eventually had to throw it away before he swallowed one. I offered him one of the bone toys that my parents’ dogs, Shamus and Butch, will play with when I’m dog sitting. He wasn’t interested at first, but soon started gnawing away at one, and then another, and then began carrying his pillow around. I also bought him a Kong, which I fill with treats when I leave the house. When he sees me filling it he climbs into his crate, then starts working out the treats out as soon as I set it in and close the door. He’s recently realized the Kong also works as a toy, and will sometimes toss it up in the air to see where it will land. Sooner or later all of his toys end up in the sun room, where he likes to keep them clustered together all within a foot of each other.
After he eats his supper and takes his evening walk, right around sunset, he settles down to relax in one of his favorite napping spots. He’ll usually take a big drink after walking; in his first days he would barely eat or drink, and I would almost choke up with relief at the sound of his tags bouncing against the water dish while he slurped away. Now it’s normal enough I’m only aware of it. I turn off the lights and bring his crate back to the bedroom at bedtime. He’ll follow in not a minute behind me, stepping in and nesting down in his crate blanket, usually with his squeak pillow close by. It’s not a bad life.
A lot of this description might be surprising for some who have met him, since he still reverts back to nervous and cautious when unfamiliar people are around. He’s making progress, though; people who were here to see him in his first days and have visited more recently have commented on how much more relaxed he seems. I don’t know for sure since there are big gaps in his pre-foster history, but it seems pretty clear from so many of his cautious and nervous behaviors that he probably endured some form of abuse before going into foster care. His foster mom suspected the same thing, as did the other people who saw the fear he carried in his first days here. I feel happy knowing he’s overcoming whatever dog nightmares there are in his past, both from his time in Texas Animal Control and whatever led him there in the first place.
After so much time spent in so many shelters, he now has his pick of comfortable and sunny places to nap. He has an entire shelf of my kitchen cabinet devoted to dog food and treats. He gets all the petting and scratching he can stand, and still gets time to himself when that’s what he wants. He feels safe and happy. Knowing how difficult of a transition it was for him when he first arrived, I feel both proud of myself and relieved for helping him settle in as quickly as he has.
It took me seven years to decide to get a new dog. Most of that delay came from the lifestyle I’d gotten used to, since it’s really easy to live a life when you aren’t responsible for anyone or anything other than yourself. In the end the decision to finally adopt was almost arbitrary; after spending nearly two years halfway thinking about it, I realized that there wasn’t going to be any ideal time. I had brought Spencer home after telling myself I’d get a dog if I wasn’t married by the time I turned thirty, so getting a new dog at fifty seemed like as good of a time as any.
Thursday
Move in day for my newly adopted dog, Freddie Mercury, was not smooth, but it was memorable. I had one of those moments of thinking, “Oh man, this is really happening,” and felt like the biggest failure imaginable. Long story short — he spent the first two hours as my dog running loose around the neighborhood after pulling out of his collar the very moment I opened the front door to let him in. Luckily for me, his foster mom was close enough to turn around and come back to walk the neighborhood. Freddie knew her when he saw her and we got him back. He spent the rest of the day sleeping in his crate, the only place in his world that felt relatively safe.
Friday
It had been a day and a night, and all Freddie wanted to do was lie still and stay safe. He took the bold step of hopping out of his crate and lying on the love seat in the living room, which has since become his home base. I’d take him outside to go to the bathroom, but he hadn’t eaten or drank much yet, so he didn’t have much interest or need. He would eat if I put a small handful of his food on the cushion in front of him, and finally started to drink when I’d swish my finger in his water bowl and wipe it on the outside of his mouth so he’d lick it off. The day before I felt like a failure after he ran off. Friday I felt like a complete load as I did nothing but sit on the adjacent couch and watch TV. After awhile I realized that wasn’t true though, because I was helping him get used to having me around and feeling safe in his new house.
My mother stopped by to see him in the afternoon. She was wearing some scented lotion that got him interested, but only enough to get him standing and sniffing in her direction.
Saturday
I woke to find him lying on the corner of my bed, which warmed my heart some. We walked around one end of the neighborhood so he could sniff his new surroundings (in a harness this time), but he still didn’t go to the bathroom. I was growing concerned about this since even though he hadn’t eaten or drank much since moving in, and that seemed like a long time. I only left the house to get some dinner and give him a chance to see that sometimes I’d be leaving the house and he’d be in his crate when that happened. I turned the radio on for him before I left, because who wouldn’t like to be taking a nap in a nice cool house with the radio on? When he ate all of his dinner that night, he finally took a big drink.
Sunday
I woke to find him lying on the bed up by my pillows this time, and found two messes on the bedroom floor; he hadn’t taken much water yet, but he was NOT dehydrated. I was so relieved he finally went that I didn’t even care, and just happily wheeled out the carpet shampooer and got to work.
During the day he walked out into the kitchen on his own when he began to recognize the sound of my opening a bag of treats. He eventually came out to his food and water dish, though he’d only eat or drink if I was sitting at the dining room table where he could keep an eye on me.
My dad came over to see him in the afternoon. Since he wasn’t wearing any scented lotion, Freddie decided to observe him from the safety and comfort of his crate for the few minutes of the visit. As soon as my dad got up and walked out the front door, Freddie hopped back up to the love seat. The best part of the day was when he started wagging his tail for the first time.
Monday
We were going on a couple days of indoor accidents, which wasn't ideal, but I knew that could be a part of bringing home a rescue. Freddie had a fenced yard at his foster home so he wasn’t used to being outside on a leash, at least not regularly. He was getting better at it as we took time to wander around the yard and the close end of the neighborhood, and the areas he returned to for sniffing became more familiar.
Tuesday
We finally got him to pee outside when my mom stopped over with Shamus and Butch in the car. Freddie stayed inside while the other two sniffed the yard and peed a little. Five minutes later Freddie was outside and found their scent, and finally took his first big outdoor pee. I sighed in tremendous relief. Later that evening he migrated over from the love seat to share the couch with me.
Wednesday
His seventh day in his new home, bringing us to the end of Week One. I set up an appointment at the same vet my sister brings her dogs to see. I was feeling I had spent too much time around the house with him and had to get him used to more time when I wasn’t around, so I turned the radio back on and went to a movie. It wasn’t great, and I was anxious to see how he would be doing when I got home. I walked in the house and called out to him. He was still secured in his crate, lying curled up in the big soft blanket that came with him from his adoption agency. He tentatively began to bounce his head when he saw me, then wagged his tail.
Thursday
It was an adventurous day for both of us since it was our first trip to the vet. He anxiously shed while we were there but didn’t even flinch when he got his nails clipped. He pooped in the lobby (twice) as we waited for the paperwork, and panted nervously during the ride home. Once we got back and I convinced him to walk inside from the garage, he recognized the house immediately. His ears perked up, he zoomed around the rooms he knew best, he grabbed a quick drink then jumped back to his love seat home base. I sat down on the couch. After a few minutes he hopped over to sit beside me, then lied down on his side and nudged my hand until I scratched his tummy. After a few minutes of that, he closed his eyes.
It had taken him nearly two years to get there, but he was finally home.
